


A Timid Love Beneath The Skin

by jacksbits (fragilehuge)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bickering, Fighting, I know it seems like there might be but don't worry there is not, M/M, Massages, There is no infidelity in this fic!!!, They have a lot of baggage in their relationship lol, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilehuge/pseuds/jacksbits
Summary: “You should go see a trainer about your shoulder,” Jack says, voice low, approaching Parse’s side at the bar.Parse’s head snaps up. “What are—well,helloto you, too. Jesus Christ, Jack.”Or, Parse gets injured during the All-Star Game, and Jack tries to make him go see a trainer. Things escalate. To... massages?





	A Timid Love Beneath The Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ManhattanProject](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManhattanProject/gifts).



> MahattanProject!!!! Hello!! It's your person! Your prompt was pretty open and I really wanted to write some complicated Pimms baggage, so I hope you enjoy it. I didn't quite manage _actual_ PBJ, but pre-PBJ is close, right?? ;) (I’d say this definitely counts as redemption arc Parse, though. Heh.)
> 
> Thanks to R & A for the read-throughs. ♥
> 
> (Mildly spoilery warning if anyone is concerned: this fic does NOT contain infidelity, even if it seems like it might for a second!)

It’s not really Jack’s idea of a good time, but he lets Tater talk him into going out on the last night of All-Star weekend anyway. He’s sure he’d have more fun back at the hotel Skyping Bitty, but it’s sort of the principle of the thing—Tater insists it’s tradition, that _everyone_ goes out the last night, and Jack’s not one to argue with Tater when he’s declaring tradition. Besides, Tater’s just trying to be welcoming. It’s not like Jack’s some eighteen-year-old kid anymore, but he’s still a rookie. It’s kind of nice when Tater goes out of his way to make sure he feels included.

Besides, this was Jack’s first time playing in the All-Star Game. Part of him still can’t believe he made it here, after everything that happened. Even if they didn’t win the tournament—they won their first game and then lost the final, which kind of sucked—it was an honor just to be invited. It’s worth commemorating that with a drink, at least. Bitty will always be there to Skype tomorrow.

They’re in some bar a couple blocks away from the hotel with maybe fifty players and NHL-adjacent people, plus a guy at the door who’s keeping it that way. Jack appreciates the privacy, though it doesn’t look like anyone’s getting too crazy. No telling what will happen later, of course, but Jack intends to be in bed by that point.

At Jack’s encouragement—he might be a rookie, but he really _isn’t_ an eighteen-year-old in need of babysitting—Tater’s off cavorting with the four other Russians in the room. That leaves Jack sitting at one of the tables in the corner, people-watching.

Well. Person-watching, mostly.

Or maybe he should call it Parson-watching. 

Heh.

He’s not really _trying_ to, and normally he wouldn’t, but Parse made a really greasy goal in the semis that morning and ended up hurting his shoulder. He’d overbalanced right as he made the shot, which probably would have been fine except then some big asshole from the Blackhawks slammed him into the boards. It looked painful and it sounded _worse_ , but then the Pacific division went on to win the game, so at least it hadn’t been in vain.

Of course, that also meant the Pacific division went on to play Jack’s team in the final that afternoon, and of course Parse played in _that_ game, too, so honestly it’s no wonder that he’s clearly in pain now. Sure, the Pacific division ended up beating them, and Jack knows some of his annoyance is just because of that, but it was still stupid of Parse to play. It’s not like the All-Star Game really _matters_. The Aces still have a chance at the playoffs, for god’s sake. But it was just like Parse to risk making an injury worse over something stupid.

Jack watches Parse hide a wince as the sixth guy of the night greets him with a friendly shoulder-clap, and grits his teeth.

He has half a mind to go over there, even though it’s probably a bad idea. Sure, they’re ostensibly friends again, but Jack had planned to give Parse a wide berth whenever they had to attend hockey functions together. They might be Twitter mutuals who've exchanged the occasional “congratulations” text since the season started last fall, but Jack had been resolved not to push their luck.

But he can see that Parse is favoring his uninjured side even from all the way across the _room_ , so when Parse breaks away from his group to get another drink, Jack can’t help going over there.

“You should go see a trainer about your shoulder,” he says, voice low, approaching Parse’s side at the bar.

Parse’s head snaps up. “What are—well, _hello_ to you, too. Jesus Christ, Jack.”

Jack rolls his eyes, then waits as the bartender brings over Parse’s new drink. Once the guy moves away, Jack says, “Yes, hi. You’ve been holding your drink in your left hand all night, and I literally just saw you flinch from all the way over there when you tried to lean on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. You need to see a trainer.”

“I— _what_ —who do you think _—_ I’m not going to see a—I’m _fine_ ,” Parse splutters, and then visibly winces as he tries to shove past Jack’s body.

“You’re in pain,” Jack snaps, because Parse is being an idiot. The All-Star Game doesn’t _matter._ It’s not like playing through a sprained wrist in the Cup Finals, or pushing through a rolled ankle to get a win in overtime when you need the points. There’s a _reason_ to do those things. There was absolutely no reason Parse should have risked himself just for a chance at _bragging rights_ , in the middle of the season, when the Aces still had a shot at the Cup. “You know you can’t afford to risk an injury right now, Parse.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Parse says, obstinate and self-destructive as ever. Jack doesn’t know why he doesn’t ever fucking listen; one of these days he’s really going to do permanent damage, and then—

Jack forces himself to take a deep breath. This isn’t going anywhere productive.

Parse is just kind of glaring when Jack re-opens his eyes. He takes a resentful sip of his drink. His expression says, _what now._

Jack tries to soften his tone. “Look,” he says. “I know it’s probably not a serious injury, but you’re in pain. If you go see one of the trainers, they’ll give you a massage, maybe put some ice on it—you know it’ll help.”

Parse almost looks like he’s going to agree, but then his eyes narrow. “No, _no,_ you know how they’re gonna get—they’re always so—you lie about an injury _one time_ —”

And suddenly Jack’s hackles are up all over again. “It’s not just one time, Parse! You know it’s not. You were _always_ doing this when we were kids, I can’t believe you’re still—you haven’t changed once in _ten years_ —”

Jack knows he’s making a scene; it’s loud and dark enough in the place, but they’re not really being _quiet_. A couple people shift as they glance over to see what the commotion is about.

Jack watches Parse notice the same thing. He scowls, taking a step forward, getting close enough that he can lower his voice and hiss in Jack’s face, “Because everyone always _overreacts._ They always get so—it’s so _aggravating_ , everyone always goes crazy every time I so much as breathe about getting hurt—like, _’We’re sorry but, oh, we just can’t risk you, Parson.’_ Like I’m so fucking precious. It’s ridiculous.”

Jack opens his mouth to say _but you are precious_ before he realizes how weird that would sound. He bites it back just in time.

Parse says, “I’m not actually the entire goddamn team, you know?”

Jack takes another breath. “No. You’re not.” He keeps his voice measured. “But it’s not like you don’t _matter_ , Parse. Your trainers freak out when you come in _because_ you only do it when it’s really bad. The solution isn’t to never go!”

Parse groans in aggravation. “Look _,_ it’s _fine._ I literally just pulled a muscle. It’s not actually that big a deal. Besides, it’s been hours since it happened—if I go to a trainer _now_ , they’ll know it’s been hurting all day, and then it’ll seem—you _know_ they’ll just—Jack, I wanna _play_ next week. We’re in the middle of the season.”

“So what if they take you out for a game or two?” Jack snaps. “What happened to not being the entire goddamn team, eh?”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Parse says. “You know what I mean. I bet you feel the exact same way about sitting out games—”

“You’re being ridiculous about this.” Sometimes Jack just wants to _shake him._ Why can’t Parse take care of his fucking body? “I don’t understand why you played this afternoon. It wasn’t even a real game. It’s an exhibition match. It doesn’t even matter!”

“That’s exactly why I wanted to play, Jack, Jesus!” Parse yells, and then immediately grimaces at his volume. Jack feels a little self-conscious, but at this point, people seem to be deliberately ignoring them. If they weren’t at a private event, they’d probably end up in the fucking tabloids over this.

Jack scrubs a hand over his face. Fuck. He knew this was a bad idea. Parse has always been completely impossible.

Quieter, Parse adds, “This kind of shit is the only purely fun game I ever get to play. Sometimes I get so fucking tired of everything being so _important._ Whatever happened to just playing hockey for fun?”

And just like that, Jack’s anger evaporates. He—he gets that, actually. The most fun game of hockey he’s played in the past six months was a game of shinny with Bittle, his parents, and his baby cousins Florence and Antoine.

“Alright,” Jack says, and sighs. “Alright, yeah, okay. I get that.”

Parse looks sort of incredulous. It’s like he can’t believe he won the fight that suddenly.

“Okay,” he says, slowly, eyes a little narrowed.

Jack chews on his lip. “You’d still feel better after a massage and some ice, though.”

Parse huffs a laugh. “Yeah, probably.” He shrugs. “I kinda rubbed at it earlier. It’ll be fine. Back of the shoulder is just kind of an awkward spot to reach on yourself, y’know.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and then for some reason, “I could do it.”

Parse glances over at him, brows furrowed.

After a second he says, “Oh!” and rolls his eyes. “Sure, yeah, I get it, you’re super flexible and you take great care of your body. Probably know all kind of fancy stretches and shit. Whatever. I did my best, man.”

Jack frowns. “No, that’s not what I meant,” he says. “I meant I could give you a massage.”

“You—? Oh. Oh, uh,” Parse mumbles, then stops, clearly hesitating.

Jack is debating whether he should apologize or keep holding his ground—he doesn’t really want to apologize, because he meant it, but maybe it’s too weird, considering everything—when Parse snorts a laugh.

“Okay, sure, Jack,” he says. “Why the fuck not.”

Jack represses the urge to smile. Instead, he deadpans, “That’s the spirit.”

Parse finishes the rest of his drink in one swallow—something dark in a lowball—and takes a step back from the bar. “Alright, man. Where do you want to do this? Unless you _really_ want to make a scene.”

Jack laughs unexpectedly. “No, I think there’s going to be enough gossip as it is. We can just go to my room.”

Parse does the deliberately-not-reacting thing he used to do when they were teenagers and he was trying to be cool. “Sure,” he says.

Jack nods and heads for the door, waiting as Parse grabs his jacket from the coat check. Jack didn’t bother; it’s bizarrely warm in Nashville this weekend, even though it's January. He’s been complaining to Bittle about it all day.

Once he’s outside, he starts up the street back toward the hotel. It’s not a long walk—the league put everyone up in the Hilton across the street from the arena, and he can see both buildings from where he’s standing. It’s funny; Jack’s been to so many different cities, but he hardly ever ventures outside a two- or three-block radius wherever he goes. He could write an excellent article entitled “Bars and Restaurants Near Ice Hockey Arenas Across the USA and Canada.”

“You need to tell anyone you’re leaving?” Jack asks, sliding his phone out of his pocket to text Tater goodnight.

Parse shrugs. “Nah, they’ll figure it out.”

Almost immediately, Tater texts back, _Old guy Zimmboni strikes again ((((._ God, Jack likes Tater. _  
_

Parse glances over. “What’s so funny?”

“My teammate,” Jack says. He’s kind of amazed at how smoothly it comes out of his mouth. “He always jokes that I’m one of the old guys.”

Parse snorts. “You old and boring now, Zimms?”

Jack shrugs, looking down at the pavement. “Maybe.”

“Hm,” Parse says. “I think I’m getting there, too. I can’t drink like I used to, for one thing.”

“No?” Jack asks.

Parse makes a face. “No! I get all hungover and shit now. It sucks.”

Jack bites back a smile. “That sounds really difficult.”

Parse barks out a laugh, shoving at Jack’s shoulder. “Oh, shut up. It’s just annoying.”

After a minute, Jack asks, “You’re not tired of it?”

Parse hums. “No, I am a little. I definitely can’t go like I used to anymore.” He scoffs. “God. How lame does that sound? I’m only twenty-five.”

Jack shrugs, watching the reflected lights play across the the glass of the arena as they approach. They’re only a minute or so from the hotel entrance now.

“I don’t mind it,” he says. “Seems normal to move on from all that eventually.”

Kent grunts. “You’re probably right. Sometimes I just miss it.”

Jack nods. Sometimes he does too. There was that one summer in the Q … It all seemed so easy, for a while.

“We did have a lot of fun back then,” Jack says. He shakes his head. “Too much, probably. But we had a good time.”

“Yeah, I guess we did.” Parse sounds a little nostalgic.

They get to the hotel, then, and Jack holds the door open for Parse, then follows him to the elevator bank. The doors open right after Parse pushes the button.

“What floor?” Parse is looking down at the rows of buttons. The line of his shoulders looks a little stiff.

“Eight,” Jack says.

“Heh. I got put on nine.” Parse leans back against the wall of the elevator, staring up at the ceiling. He's tapping his hand against his thigh— _pat pat pat pat pat._ It's an old nervous gesture of Parse's, fidgeting. Funny that he still does it after all this time. “If you hear someone stomping around later, that’s me.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “How’s your arm feel?”

Parse rolls his shoulder carefully, feeling it out. “It’s really not that bad. We have a couple days off before our next game anyway.”

“We’ll get some ice for it, too,” Jack says. “That’ll help.”

Parse nods. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Whatever spell they had going on the walk seems to be broken.

Is this weird? Jack hopes Kent’s not going to get the wrong idea about this. He probably won’t, but it would be awkward if he did, and honestly Jack has no idea how Parse would react to getting turned down. Probably not well, considering their history.

Jack really doesn’t want to get in another fight with him tonight.

But all too soon, they’re outside Jack’s room. He opens the door with a little beep of the key card and steps inside, Parse just behind him.

Jack toes his sneakers off by the dresser, dropping his phone and wallet on top. The door clicks shut behind him.

Parse lets out a little cough. “So, where should I...?”

Jack frowns at the room. He doesn’t have a living room suite this time; it’s just two queen beds and a chair in the corner. But the chair wouldn’t really work. “Uh, on the bed, I guess?”

Parse eyes the two beds and sits on the end of the one Jack obviously hasn’t been sleeping in. Which… is nicely non-presumptuous of him. It probably bodes well for Parse not taking all of this the wrong way. Jack still feels a little anxious about it anyway.

He thinks about telling Parse to lie down and decides against it, instead settling in carefully behind him—one leg folded up beneath himself, the other hanging off the side of the bed. Close enough to reach him, but not so close that their bodies are touching or anything like that.

Jack can still feel Parse’s body heat, though. It’s… a little uncomfortable. Jack wishes he wasn’t so aware of Parse’s body.

“So, um,” Jack starts. “Just—let me know if I go too hard or if I should go harder or whatever?”

“Uh, yeah,” Parse says, nodding. “’Course.”

It’s too quiet in the room. Jack bites his lip. “You can, uh—put the TV on or something, if you want?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Kent says, half standing up to grab the remote from the dresser and flick the flat screen on. “I can put a game on or something.”

“Right,” Jack says.

Kent scrolls through a couple channels and manages to find a football game, then sits back down on the bed, dropping the remote beside him.

And then there’s nothing for Jack to do but reach his hands out.

Parse jerks a little when Jack first touches him. He doesn’t say anything as Jack digs his thumbs into the meat of his shoulder, though.

This part, at least, comes a little easier to Jack. He has strong hands and he knows how to do this—he spent his childhood watching his mom give his dad back massages, until he was old enough to learn himself. His dad always came home with the worst aches and pains from playing, and there was nothing Jack liked more as a child than giving him a good shoulder rub. It felt important somehow, to help the man he idolized feel a little less pain. It made Jack feel useful. It was tangible evidence of his worth.

Even now, Jack still really _likes_ giving massages. There was something so satisfyingly straightforward about finding a knot and eliminating it. And Jack always had liked doing things with his hands.

It feels good, to do this for Parse now. Jack can feel that he’s tense and uncomfortable at first, but he just keeps a steady pressure on the muscles. Eventually Parse relaxes.

It’s good. Jack hopes he’s helping.

He’s moving carefully over Parse’s injured side, trying to work out the tension without causing more damage, when he unexpectedly digs into a particularly solid knot. Parse lets out a little grunt—the sort of good-bad noise that Jack is so familiar with. He just keeps at it, gentle but firm, until the muscle starts to relax. Then he digs in deep all over again.

“Ah!” Parse yelps. “You motherfucker.”

Jack grins. “You know it’ll help.”

Parse huffs a laugh. “You don’t have to sound so smug about it.”

“Sorry,” Jack says, deliberately insincere. He watches as Parse gives his shoulders a little roll. He looks more limber already. Jack is definitely smug about it.

Parse doesn’t seem to take any offense at the insincerity, even though he really does deserve an apology from Jack. Maybe the massage is good enough, though. Parse certainly seems content, loose and pliant under Jack’s hands.

They’re quiet for a while, just the TV in the background and Kent’s occasional grunts as Jack works over his muscles.

Eventually, Jack says, “Sorry for—lecturing you earlier. It was rude. I was just—worried about you.”

Parse snorts, but he says, “Yeah, I know. But you sure had a real hostile way of showing it.”

“Sorry,” Jack says. He means it. “You already knew I was asshole.”

Parse laughs. “You have me there.”

Jack thinks that’ll be it—he does feel better, a little less guilty about how he acted—but then Parse adds, “I’m sorry, too. I certainly didn’t do anything to de-escalate the situation.”

That makes Jack laugh aloud. “You never were very good at that.”

“Shut up,” Parse says. “You’d be surprised. I’m getting better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Parse says. He laughs a little ruefully. “Man, my therapist is gonna be piiissed at me for losing my temper in public like that, though.”

“That seems a little hypocritical.” Honestly, Jack’s a little surprised at the revelation that Parse sees a therapist, but he’s not the kind of person to ask about it unprompted. Either way—it seems good. Jack’s glad.

“I don’t mean she’ll yell or anything,” Parse says. “She’ll just give me this look.” He turns around to give Jack a scowl in example. “Very displeased. Like, I definitely wouldn’t want to see _her_ lose her temper, y’know?”

“It’s usually not pretty,” Jack says.

“Yup,” Parse agrees. “And it’s very important that I’m pretty.”

That gets a loud, surprised laugh out of Jack. Parse is still half-turned toward him, so the angle isn’t quite right, but Jack tries to dig a thumb into the meat of Parse’s back in retaliation.

“Heh,” Parse says. “That won’t work anymore. I’m all loose and shit now.”

“Yeah?” Jack asks. “You feel better?”

Parse purses his lips, seeming to think about it. “I think so,” he says, and rolls his body. “Mmm. Yeah. Definitely better than before. Thanks.”

He smiles at Jack, making eye contact, and Jack is suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close they are like this. He wishes Parse would turn back around. It wasn’t weird a second ago.

“Yeah, hah,” Jack says, just for something to say. “It’s no problem. We should go get some ice for it.”

“Yeah,” Parse says, but he doesn't move. “Good idea.”

Jack realizes his hand is still resting on Parse’s shoulder for some reason. He lifts it to rub the back of his own neck. This is getting... dangerous.

Parse is still looking at him and Jack knows he needs to—to stop it, to mention Bitty, to do _something_ before Parse gets the wrong idea, but once Jack says something, Parse is going to get angry, and Jack doesn’t want that. It’s been so _good_ tonight—not earlier, at the bar, but everything afterward. It’s felt like it used to, a little, and it makes Jack hate how fucked up their relationship has gotten. He misses being friends. He misses that stupid perfect summer that seemed like it would last forever—

Parse tips his head, like he’s curious—like he’s testing something—and Jack’s heart leaps into his throat. He has to say something. He has to say _something._ Parse might get mad but it doesn’t matter, it honestly doesn’t _matter_ , because there’s nothing Jack can do to ensure they won’t ever fight again, but there _is_ something he can do to ensure he doesn’t do something he can’t take back—

“Well, I—I hope it was good—” The words tumble helplessly out of Jack’s mouth. “My—my boyfriend always says I give the best massages, but then again maybe he’s lying, I wouldn’t know because I can’t really give myself massages—but anyway. Yeah.”

“Oh,” Parse says. “Your—oh. Ah, yeah. Right.”

“Yeah, haha.” Jack’s throat is tight with anxiety, waiting for—for whatever Parse is going to do next. Jack knows it won’t be good.

“Well,” Parse says. He stands up and stretches, pulling his arms over his head, twisting at the waist, shaking his body out. Then he stills. “Well,” he repeats, and sighs. “Anyway. Thanks, Jack.”

For a second, Jack can’t make sense of what’s happening. Parse can’t be leaving, because they haven’t fought yet. That was what was going to happen next.

But apparently not. Parse doesn’t look upset. He’s standing partway across the room, listing a little toward the door. He looks calm and relaxed and like someone who’s planning to leave in the next few minutes, not—whatever Jack expected him to look like.

“You aren’t—” Jack starts, and then stops himself, swallowing. He doesn’t know why he feels so disappointed. It’s not like he _wanted_ to fight.

It seems a little embarrassing to admit he thought Parse would get angry, even if there was precedent. That was—over a year ago, and one of the only times they ever fought where Jack wasn’t just as angry back and egging him on. Part of Jack thinks the only reason Kent got so nasty at Epikegster was because he was completely unprepared for Jack to take the high road. It certainly hadn’t been Jack’s usual M.O. in the past. But it’s not like Jack can know for sure.

Parse is looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting for Jack to finish his thought, so he forces out, “We’re okay, right?”

Parse appears to be somewhere between touched and confused by the question, but he only says, “Yeah, Zimms. I think we are.”

“Okay.” Jack nods, standing up too. “Cool. That’s good. I—I’m glad you think so.”

Parse looks at him for what feels like a long time, but there’s not really anything else to say, and eventually he takes another step back toward the door.

“Okay,” he says. “It was—it was good to see you, Zimms.”

“Yeah.” Jack oddly doesn’t want Parse to leave, but he doesn’t know how to keep him. “I’m—really glad we got to talk. Sorry again for being an asshole earlier.”

Parse looks a little sad. “It’s nothing. You know I’ve acted worse.”

“No,” Jack says, but it’s a sort of empty protest. Parse is right. Then again—the guy Jack met tonight isn’t the really the same Parse he used to know. Or, he was, in all the ways that counted, but he was still—different, somehow. A little older. Better controlled.

Honestly, it feels weird, but Jack feels sort of—proud of him? But he is. He’s proud of Parse.

He’s a little proud of himself, too. They got through a whole fight like adults and even managed to make up afterward. They certainly couldn’t have done that when they were nineteen. Or twenty-two. Or twenty-four, for that matter.

But apparently at twenty-five they can finally handle themselves. It’s about fucking time.

“Anyway,” Parse says, drawing Jack back out of his thoughts. “I should go.”

“Okay, sure,” Jack says, watching as Parse opens the door. “Yeah. Goodnight. Talk to you soon.”

He says it half automatically, but it makes Parse pause in the doorway. “Yeah?” he asks.

Jack finds that he meant it. “Yeah,” he says.

“Cool.” Parse smiles. “’Night, then. See ya later.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Maybe at breakfast.”

Parse snorts. “Dork.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Bye, Parse.”

“Yeah, yeah, bye,” Parse says, stepping into the hallway. “Sleep well or whatever.”

Jack laughs as the door clacks shut.

And then he’s alone.

He just kind of stands there, for a moment. He’s… not sure how he feels.

Good, mostly. Sort of sad. A little unsettled.

That was _weird._

Honestly, his first impulse is to talk to Bitty about it, which seems inappropriate for half a second until Jack thoroughly shuts down that idea. He’s obviously going to tell Bitty. He loves Bitty. They don’t keep secrets from each other. That’s what makes them _work_.

A couple minutes later, Jack is settled on his bed—not the one he and Parse were on—with his laptop open and Skype up. Luckily, Bitty’s online.

Jack only hesitates a second before he calls him. Nothing happened. It was weird, but it wasn’t anything _bad_. There’s no reason to keep this a secret.

When Bitty picks up, Jack tries to seem casual. He doesn’t want to interrupt Bitty if he’s doing something important.

“Hey, Bits,” he says. “Whatcha doing?”

Bitty’s at the kitchen table of the Haus. “Not much,” he says. “Waiting for a pie. This polysci reading is kicking my ass.”

“You too busy to talk?” Jack asks.

“No, it’s fine. The reading isn’t due ’til Tuesday anyway. I could use the break.” And then, because it’s Bittle and he notices everything, he adds, “What’s going on?”

Jack sighs. “I had a kind of weird interaction with Parse.”

“Oh, no,” Bitty says. “Was it bad?”

“No,” Jack says. “It wasn’t bad.”

That just makes Bitty tilt his head. “Well, that’s good. What was it, then?”

Jack bites his lip. “Just weird. He got hurt this morning during a game—a dirty check—and I, uh. I gave him a massage?”

To his credit, Bitty only raises his eyebrows and says, “Okay, that is weird.”

Jack doesn’t want him to get the wrong idea. “It’s not like—nothing _happened_.”

“I know,” Bitty says, but just the slightest bit too quickly. Reflexive instead of sincere. Jack isn’t sure that Bitty really _does_ know, which is unacceptable. Jack would never cheat on him. Not with anyone. Bitty has to understand that.

“I wouldn’t,” Jack says, absolutely serious, holding eye contact until the little sliver of doubt in Bitty’s face fades away.

Bitty’s voice softens. “I know that, Jack. Of course I do.” He pauses, chewing on his lip. “So, what kind of massage are we talking? Like, the kind of shoulder rubs you were always giving Lardo at school, or, uh—”

 _“_ Just a shoulder massage!” Jack says quickly. “Not, you know.”

Bitty looks a little relieved. “Oh, good. Okay.” He frowns. “Where?”

“My hotel room,” Jack says. “I—there just... wasn’t really anywhere else.”

“Hmm, I guess.” Bitty’s quiet for a moment, clearly thinking it over, and Jack gives him time to process. Eventually, Bitty says, “I still don’t quite—how in the _world_ did you end up offering Kent Parson of all people a massage?”

Jack is a little embarrassed about this part. “I, uh, I picked a fight with him, first of all.”

“Oh, god. Not a physical one, I hope?”

“No,” Jack says. “It was at the bar—the one I went to with Tater?”

“Right,” Bitty says. “Don’t stall. What’d you do?”

“I just, kinda—yelled at him about, um, not taking care of himself? Because, y’know, I saw him hurt his shoulder in the game that morning, and then he played _again_ that afternoon—against us, and we lost, by the way—”

“Yes, sweetheart, I saw,” Bitty says. “I’m sorry. I know it sucks to lose.”

“Yeah, well, anyway—what Parse did, playing in the second game, it was just—stupid.”

“Right,” Bitty says. “The Aces are ahead on points this season. He shouldn’t have risked aggravating an injury over something like the All-Star Game.”

“Yes!” Jack says. “ _Exactly!_ Thank you!” God, he loves Bitty. He really, really does. He's momentarily distracted by how lucky he is.

Bitty frowns at Jack when the pause drags on too long. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jack grins. “I just—I love you. You understood exactly why I was so worked up about Parse playing in two seconds.”

“Well, it’s just—that’s obvious,” Bitty says, trying to deflect. But he’s not quite able to control his grin well enough to be convincing. “And I love you, too, honey.”

Jack feels more settled already, just after talking to Bitty for this long. He could let himself get distracted now if he wanted to, but—there’s more. He knows it’ll help to talk through all of it. It seems important.

So Jack adds, “It was also—Parse has a history of hiding injuries. Back from when we were, uh—from back in the Q. So it was kind of—upsetting, to see him doing it again.”

“Oh,” Bitty says. “Okay. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Jack nods. “It’s just, it’s a dangerous way to play, and I really don’t—” He stops, clears his throat. He doesn’t know why this is making him so emotional. “I just really don’t want to see him do permanent damage, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bitty says softly. He looks almost like he might cry, but Jack doesn’t mean to make him sad. It’s just the _truth_ , that he worries about Parse. There’s nothing sad about that.

“So—anyway—then I yelled at him,” Jack says, trying to break the tension. Thankfully, it makes Bitty laugh just like he intended.

Once he calms down, Bitty manages, “So how’d _that_ lead to a massage?”

“Well—Parse was saying how he couldn’t go to the trainers, since it’d make it look worse than it really was—so even if a massage _would_ help, it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t ask them. And then I accidentally, um, offered. To do it.”

Jack is a little afraid of making Bitty feel insecure again, but Bitty just laughs and says, “Well, naturally. You’re very good at giving massages.”

Jack laughs. “I guess you would know, eh?”

“Yes, yes I would,” Bitty says. “Though you already told me you didn’t give Parse _quite_ the same kind of massage you like to give me.”

Jack coughs, accidentally imagining that. It’s—certainly an image. Not a very appropriate one.

“Right,” Jack says. “Anyway. That was kind of it. We went to my room, which was, um. A little awkward. But I gave him a massage, and then he left. And then I called you.”

“Hmm,” Bitty says. “That was all?”

“Yeah.”

Bitty tips his head. “There wasn’t even—a _moment_ —?”

“I—” Jack stops. His automatic reaction is to lie, and he doesn’t want to lie to Bitty. Instead, he chews his lip, thinking it through. “He, um. I think there was a second where he was thinking about—kissing me. But I, uh. Then I brought you up. So.”

Bitty bursts out laughing at whatever Jack’s expression is doing. “You _what_?”

Jack hides his face and moans, “Bits, I was so _awkward!_ ”

“Oh, no.” Bitty is grinning. “What did you even say?”

“Uh—” Jack wants to die. “I said, ‘I hope that was good, my boyfriend always says I give the best massages, but maybe he’s lying, I wouldn’t know because I can’t give myself massages.’”

Bitty is still laughing. “Oh, no. Jack. Oh, no. You poor thing.”

“I mean—he was—I had to—I didn’t want him to actually _kiss me._ ”

“Hmm.” There’s a mischievous glint to Bitty’s eyes. “You didn’t? Not even a little?”

“I—I—” Jack regrets this entire line of conversation. He regrets every resolve he’s ever made not to lie to Bitty. “I didn’t—I didn’t want to be in that position. I—you—you know I meant what I said. I would never cheat on you. It’s not like you would have been okay with it, so. I wasn’t going to do it.”

Bitty pauses for a long moment. Eventually, he says, “Well, I wouldn’t want you to cheat on me.”

“Right,” says Jack. “So, anyway. I think Parse—I think maybe he thought there was a moment. But I stopped it.”

“Oh, god, wait,” Bitty says, a look of comprehension dawning on his face. “How did Parse react?”

“He actually—took it really well?” Jack still feels a little stunned by it. “He wasn’t even mad.”

“Huh. Really? We’re talking about the same guy who lost his shit because you wouldn’t join his hockey team, right?”

Jack shrugs. “I was surprised, too.”

“Wow.”

“He even mentioned he's seeing a therapist at one point.”

Bitty’s eyes are as round as saucers. “Wow. Good for him!”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “That’s what I thought.” He sighs. “He seemed—he seemed good, Bits. It was actually nice.”

“After you stopped fighting,” Bitty teases.

“Yeah, of course. I mostly started that, though. I got very, uh, one-track minded about it. Like pre-season on steroids.”

Bitty snorts. “I can imagine. Not a good look on you.”

“No,” Jack says.

“Well, good for him,” Bitty says, quietly, after a moment. “I’m glad he seemed—I don’t know. Calmer? More mature?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I’m glad, too.”

Jack really is. He feels like he’s grown up a lot in the past six months—in no small part thanks to being with Bitty. He’s glad Parse seems to be growing along with him or whatever. It seems fitting. Jack knows it’s taken both of them way too fucking long, but—well. Maybe that’s okay, as long as they get there eventually.

Bitty looks considering. “So. Are you going to talk to him again?”

“I—maybe.” Jack sighs. “I hope so. It would be nice to be—I don’t know, normal again? We were close for a really long time.”

“Yeah,” Bitty says. The mischievous look comes back. “‘ _Close_ ,’ huh? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Jack feels his face heat. “What—I mean—me and him dated a long time ago, Bits.” This is awkward. Jack doesn’t know why Bitty keeps digging into this. He thinks he’s probably always going to feel something for Parse, but it’s not that big of a deal. Jack just doesn't want to accidentally say something that will make Bitty feel bad.

“So, are we _‘close’?_ ” Bitty mocks.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously. You’re my boyfriend. And—Bitty, I’m with you now. So, whatever’s in the past… it’s in the past. It doesn’t matter.”

Bitty sobers a little. “It doesn’t?”

Jack shrugs. “Well, not as much as you.”

Bitty nods, seemingly satisfied with that. For a second, Jack thinks he’s escaped the teasing, but then Bitty’s lip quirks. Much too innocently, he asks, “So what you’re saying is, you wouldn’t be interested in a _completely_ debauched orgy between you, me, Kent Parson, and six well-oiled beefcakes we found on the Internet?”

“Um,” Jack says. He’s definitely blushing again. “I wouldn’t have sex with men we found on the Internet.”

Bitty bursts out laughing. “Oh, _honey_.”

“Stop teasing,” Jack mutters.

Bitty rests his hand on his chin. “I’ll tease ya if I want to, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack presses his lips together to hold in a smile. “I can’t stop you, eh?”

“No,” Bitty says. “You cannot.”

“We’ll see about that the next time I see you,” Jack threatens. “I’m sure I can think of a way to get you back.”

“Hmph,” Bitty says. “And when will that be, Mr. Zimmermann? I don’t think your next visit is scheduled until _spring break.”_

“I’ll come see you before then,” Jack says. “Some weekend or something.”

Bitty huffs. “It’s not real ’til it’s on my calendar.”

“Mm,” Jack says. “I’ll figure something out. I’ll be back in Providence tomorrow. I have to check my practice schedule first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bitty says. “I’m still just teasin’ you. I know you’ll come up when you can.” He pauses. “When’s your flight?”

“Noon.”

It seems like a sort of random change of subject, until Bitty says, “And—when’s Parse’s?”

So they're still on Parse. Jack says, “I honestly don’t know.”

Bitty tilts his head. “You going to see him before you leave?”

Jack blinks. Does Bitty _want_ Jack to see him?

“Maybe at breakfast?” Jack says, slowly. He can’t figure out what he’s reading on Bitty’s face. It’s not bad, he thinks, but there’s something—careful about his expression. Like there’s something that he’s not quite saying.

“Well.” Bitty fiddles with the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. “You should make sure you say goodbye to him. It’s good to reconnect with old friends.”

“You think?” Jack asks. Though, honestly, he’s not sure if he and Parse really can _be_ just friends. He sighs, looking over at the other bed. “There’s a lot of history there. Sometimes I think it’s better to leave things in the past where they came from.”

“Maybe so,” Bitty says. “I guess it depends on what everyone wants.”

Jack bites his lip. “And what do you want?”

Bitty shrugs. “Dunno yet. It could be interesting to get to know Parse a little better.”

“You think so?” Jack asks. He—really likes that idea. Just the idea of them getting along feels good. And honestly, knowing the two of them, they’d probably... actually hit it off. They're a lot more alike than different. “I think you two could be friends.”

Bitty smirks. “But could we be _‘close’?_ ”

“ _Bits!_ ” Jack feels scandalized, even though he’s obviously not serious. But this line of teasing makes Jack feel so nervous. His heart is pounding.

“You wouldn’t want that?” Bitty asks.

“I—” Jack says. He’s trying not to imagine it. He’s trying to think of something to say that isn’t a lie.

But Bitty takes pity on him. “You can plead the fifth, baby.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jack says.

It’s obvious what Bitty’s implying, and even if it’s partly a joke, he also seems... kind of serious. Like he’s encouraging Jack to think about—except that doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense that Bitty would want—

Maybe Jack just isn’t understanding him correctly. He could be misinterpreting. It wouldn’t be the first time. But Jack still isn’t quite brave enough to ask Bitty exactly what he means, how serious he is, just in case—just in case Jack’s wrong and Bitty gets upset, or—or—there’s a million reasons. Honestly, Jack isn’t even quite brave enough to _think_ about it directly.

But he does make himself ask, “You wouldn’t feel jealous?”

It takes Bitty a second to answer. He seems to really think it over. “I wouldn’t want to feel left out.”

Jack nods. Part of him understands what Bitty’s saying, but a larger part of him thinks— _no._ No. Because the whole idea seems—unsustainable. Dangerous. It doesn’t make sense to him, that Bitty wouldn’t hate him for—and what if Bitty thought it would be okay but it really wasn’t—what if Jack hurt him? It doesn’t make sense to risk jeopardizing _everything_ —

He can feel the anxiety building in his throat. It’s all honestly too much right now. There are too many ways it could go wrong, and Parse might not even—he was so _calm_ earlier, when Jack turned him down. If he was still—if he still wanted—wouldn’t he have been more upset? Maybe the only reason Parse was so calm was because Jack doesn’t matter to him at all anymore. And if that’s true, then Jack doesn’t—he doesn’t think he wants to know that. He doesn’t want that to be true. Because if Parse is over him, and he’s still—

And that’s not even considering how _Bitty_ would feel about all of it—

But then suddenly Bitty is interrupting his thoughts. “Jack, we can talk more about it later. It’s alright, honey. It’s okay.”

Jack blinks back into the room. He’d kind of forgotten they were even on Skype together.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, okay. I just—I don’t know.”

Bitty hums soothingly. “It’s okay, honey. It’s just an idea. We don’t have to figure anything out right now.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Jack sighs, and then yawns.

“You should probably get some rest now. You’ve had a long day.”

Jack _has_ had a long day. He played two games of hockey today. It feels like a long time ago. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah, I should probably get some sleep.”

“You should,” Bitty says. “Thanks for calling, honey. It was good to talk to you.”

“Yeah, always,” Jack answers. “I—I’m glad you—even if I can’t talk about it right now. I want to talk about it later.”

Bitty smiles softly. “We can do that.”

“I love you,” Jack says, because he does, and that’s the most important thing.

“I love you, too,” Bitty says. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Jack says. “Goodnight. Don’t stay up too late.”

Bitty ducks his head. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try. Goodnight.”

“Bye,” Jack says, and clicks off the call. Now that Bitty’s mentioned it, he really is tired.

It’s been a long day.

Definitely an interesting one.

He’s not quite sure what to make of it.

Then again—Bitty is right. As usual. It’s not like he has to figure any of it out tonight. There’s time for that later.

For now, all Jack needs to do is brush his teeth and get into bed. He can start to figure the rest of it out tomorrow.

Maybe at breakfast.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been out of the fic-writing game... basically since last year's KVP Birthday Bash. But I'm trying to get back into it! This thing was really fun to write, so I hope y'all enjoyed it. (And if you did, I'd love to hear from you! ♥)


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